Starry nights like dead mens cries,
Are long gone with the passage of time,
Dead skies hide behind thickset clouds,
As under the absent moonlight, humanity lies.
And a bus, a bus that dies,
With every new passenger that hobbles inside,
Clogs on, back and forth with no lights
Like the eyes of its driver who sees with his heart.
At the door, on the seat that stinks of escape,
A stranger sat, rolled up tight in his black cape.
With an air of mystery and an anthology of scars
An apparent history of tremendous pain,
He drifted away in the sleep he feigned.
At the backseat window that collected a ton of frost,
Another stranger gazed into the night, lost.
In more ways than one, and one way more than most
Chased by his shadow and the sins of the past
Up down the aisle, on a seat said to be cursed,
A little girl with golden locks stroked her midnight companion.
Dusty eyes, a haunted smile and the palest skin,
Memories of a distant father who always let himself in
Standing tall, in the middle of them all,
The conductor clutched the ominous fading register,
In a feeble grip close to his chest in his right arm
And all the fleeting hopes in the tired left,
Leading them astray to even more harm,
The bus rumbled away.